


crystalline

by imagines



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon, awkward handjob, even more awkward feelings, jjbekweek2017, oh my god they were rinkmates, they’re like 16/17ish here if you’re wondering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines
Summary: Otabek arrives in Montreal with one skate bag, three suitcases, and zero French. Nathalie, as she will insist he call her, is the one who fetches him from the airport and takes him to his home for the next few months, where Otabek is swarmed by two small Leroy children and one really tall one. (Five firsts in Otabek’s friendship with J.J. Day 1 prompt: "Firsts.")





	crystalline

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first jjbek! Gosh I like this ship so much.

**1\. first sight**

Otabek arrives in Montreal with one skate bag, three suitcases, and zero French. Nathalie, as she will insist he call her, is the one who fetches him from the airport and takes him to his home for the next few months, where Otabek is swarmed by two small Leroy children and one really tall one. The tall one nudges away the smaller ones and sticks his hand out. “ _Bonjour, je m'appelle Jean-Jacques_ ,” he says.

Otabek blinks at him. “I’m sorry, I do not speak French,” he says, but he shakes the boy’s hand anyway. His English is still pretty stiff and formal, but it’ll have to do.

“Oh! Sure, no problem.” Something about the boy’s grin makes Otabek suspect he’s trouble. What kind, he can’t yet say. “I said hello, I’m Jean-Jacques.”

“Zha—” Otabek tries, but the rest of it escapes him. He swallows hard, feeling his cheeks heat up. At least in Russia he’d been able to pronounce everyone’s names. He could be back at that training camp right now, if only he’d been any good at it. Maybe this time he’d have the nerve to talk to that one kid, the one who was so focused he’d barely even looked at anyone else.

“It’s okay,” the boy says. “You can just call me Jean for now. I don’t mind.”

“Jean,” Otabek says softly. The boy gets a huge smile on his face. Yeah, that’ll work.

****  


**2\. first gold**

Jean-Jacques, who’s lately started going by J.J., comes back from Nationals with a gold medal. Otabek can’t help feeling a cold stab of jealousy. Then the medal’s hanging on the wall of the room they share, where Otabek has to see it every morning and every night. He’s a shitty friend and he knows it, and it’s not J.J.’s problem, so he conceals the frustration and guilt squirming away inside him.

Or he thinks he does, until the night J.J. marches over to Otabek’s bed in the dim lamplight and sits on Otabek’s legs. “I’m not moving until you tell me what’s wrong,” he says. “I know you’re gonna say nothing’s wrong, but that’s a lie and both of us know it. So just tell me.”

Otabek tries to free himself, but J.J.’s had another growth spurt—how is he still jumping quads?—and Otabek can’t make him budge. J.J.’s stupid blue eyes always make Otabek feel like he’s been opened up and read cover to cover inside of sixty seconds, and he turns his head away. Unfortunately, his gaze lands on the damn medal, and J.J. doesn’t miss his sharp breath.

“Oh,” J.J. says, more softly than Otabek’s ever heard him speak.

“It’s not—I’m not—” Nothing’s coming out right. “You deserved it,” Otabek says finally. “It’s your first senior gold. I’m happy for you. Congratulations.”

“It’s not my first gold.”

“Wait, what? But I thought…” Otabek frowns. He’s seen the newspaper clippings Nathalie stuck to the refrigerator.

J.J. pokes him hard in the chest. “Altin,” he says. “You said it means _golden_. You were here before that medal, so you’re my first gold.”

“What the fuck,” Otabek mutters. “J.J., go to sleep already.”

J.J. gets off him, finally, and Otabek rolls onto his side to face the wall. He hears J.J. start to pad across the room, then stop.

“Tomorrow I’m teaching you a quad sal,” J.J. tells him.

  


**3\. first time**

Most people kiss first, right? But they’re not most people, are they.

It’s morning, sort of. J.J.’s driving his mom’s car, a cramped little green compact, and Otabek’s dozing in the passenger seat. They’re supposed to be heading to the rink, but J.J. zips right past the turn and keeps going. “I want to show you something,” is all he says, when Otabek protests.

A slender golden-pink line of light has just begun to creep over the horizon when they pull into a tiny, empty, gravel-covered parking lot somewhere along the St. Lawrence. Otabek really, really wants to go back to bed, but J.J. drops his head onto Otabek’s shoulder and points out across the river.

“Just watch.”

And, okay, it’s really something, shivering in the car with J.J. leaning on him, as the swell of sunlight turns the clouds to wildflower shades of violet, rose, and marigold. The river ice shifts from blue gray to cold glittering fire.

J.J. sighs, sinking more heavily against him. “You had to see this at least once.” His breath is soft against Otabek’s throat. His hand is warm on Otabek’s thigh.

Otabek turns his head slightly so he can see J.J.’s face. There’s a moment J.J. looks at him, a soundless question hiding in his quick little breaths. Otabek decides—no, that’s not it; that’s too active. Decisions require thought. Weighing of options. Pros and cons. Otabek _allows_ it, nodding to J.J., ears red and ringing as J.J. slides his palm between Otabek’s legs.

J.J.’s biting his lower lip, and they’re both still sleep-dazed, and those are all the excuses Otabek has for what happens next.

He can’t look. He closes his eyes; lets his skull thump back hard against the headrest. He has never had someone else’s hands on him this way. J.J. flicks open the button on Otabek’s Levi’s and drags the zipper down so slowly that Otabek swears he hears every click of the metal teeth. J.J. slips his hand through the fly of Otabek’s boxers. Through his eyelashes, Otabek can see the windows have fogged up.

People do this, often, on purpose. People expose all sorts of aching places to each other, praying for relief. Otabek is biting a notch into his lip.

J.J.’s hand stills. “Otabek. You good?” He sounds—frightened, maybe. Like he’s worried this isn’t wanted.

Otabek opens his eyes, opens his legs, grabs J.J.’s wrist and pushes hard into his hand.

“Okay,” J.J. says. “Okay, okay—”

It doesn’t take long after that.

The sun bursts over the horizon; the river goes crystalline, so bright Otabek can’t stand to look.

“It’s J.J. Style!” J.J. even does the hand thing, elbows braced on Otabek’s thighs.

Otabek rewards him with a shove to his face.

J.J. laughs. They don’t kiss.

  


**4\. first kiss**

When they do kiss, Otabek is sitting on a bench wearing only one skate. J.J. smells like sweat, and someone needs to tell him to lay off the AXE. It’s not gonna be Otabek.

They’re in a locker room like any other locker room, except they’re at Worlds and Otabek’s just taken bronze. Five seconds after J.J. removes his lips from Otabek’s, other skaters come ambling in and Otabek’s left with his hand over his own mouth, staring up at J.J. They should probably talk about this later.

They don’t talk about it.

****  


**5\. first parting**

“I wish you could stay.” J.J. has been following him around like a lost puppy for the last week; today is no different.

Otabek stuffs another pile of folded clothing into one of his suitcases, which is lying open on his bed. “You’ll be fine without me,” he says. “You have other friends. Didn’t Isabella ask you out the other day?” He holds up a sweater. “Is this mine or yours?” It’s red, so it could be J.J.’s; it has a thick turtleneck collar, so it could be Otabek’s.

J.J. steps closer, peering at it. “I think it’s yours. I don’t know. I don’t care, you can have it, either way.”

They’re both silent for a few minutes. After awhile, J.J. moves over to his own bed, across the room, and sits down heavily on the edge of it. “Otabek.”

Otabek is carefully rolling pairs of socks. Some of them have no matches; doubtless, the Leroy washing machine or the Leroy dog have destroyed a few during his time here. He’s not sure what to do with the leftover halves of the pairs. He should probably throw them away. “What,” he says, distractedly.

“I really mean it. I wish you weren’t leaving. I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

“Grand Prix, I guess.” Otabek shrugs. “It’s just a few months.”

“Will we…” There’s the sound of J.J.’s foot scuffing against the carpet. “What will we be then?”

At that, Otabek drops the socks on the bed and turns around. “Oh,” he says. “Shit.”

J.J. quickly pastes on a smile, but Otabek already caught the pain in his eyes. “Not your fault I never asked before. Just wondering.” He looks strangely small over there on his bed, hoping for an answer he obviously knows he won’t get.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know.” J.J. shrugs. “Like you said, I’ll be fine without you.” As always, J.J. says exactly what he means. No malice clouds his voice; no tripwires lurk in the depths.

“We’ll hang out,” Otabek says. “Okay? We’ll, I don’t know, we’ll get dinner. In Barcelona.”

“In Barcelona,” J.J. echoes. “Yeah, that sounds like fun.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hc that Otabek remembers how to pronounce "Jean" because it sounds a liiittle bit like "zhanym." Ahem, anyway...
> 
> ([Here's a Kazakh music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bsIeGHAbSj4) that I found while trying to figure out how to pronounce "zhanym" in the first place! _THE SINGER'S NAME IS ALTINBEK._ )
> 
> Come say hello to me [on tumblr](https://meimagino.tumblr.com)! :)


End file.
